Break on Through to the Other Side: Precious

In the hours following my viewing of the much-hyped film Precious, part three of the Teen Girl Trifecta, I asked myself just why I love YA lit.  Why have I gravitated toward the young adult section in bookstores and libraries since college, way after I was in the target demographic and way before Stephenie Meyer called mainstream attention to the genre (quite possibly the only good thing to come out of the whole Twilight craze)?  And it goes beyond books: why am I, a professional woman with a graduate degree, so drawn to films centering around teenage girls and their self-discoveries?

Is it because I want to recapture that time in my life?  Doubtful: my high school experience was far from horrific, but there's no way in hell I'd go back.  Besides, I'm not one of those people who feels old at almost thirty.  If anything, I feel like there's a world of stuff I still don't know, adventures I still need to embark upon.

Maybe that's my answer.

Several months ago, I read an interview with a YA author.  One quote, in response to the question "why do you write for young adults?", really stuck with me.  The author said something to the effect of: "adult books have a tone of 'look at what I have learned.'  Young adult books, on the other hand, say 'learn with me.'"

And in Precious, that's exactly what the viewer does.

Let me say first that although I was excited to see the film, having read countless articles about its message and about its young breakout star, I was also leery of the hype.  I was worried I'd be Slumdog Millionaire'd all over again.  Yes, I thought last year's Best Picture Oscar winner certainly had merit and contained some amazing performances (particularly from the child and teen actors), but that film left me feeling. . . manipulated.  I thought it was way hokey and overrated.  Because Precious has a realistic, take-no-prisoners storyline, and centers on a young woman's struggle for a better life, I was hoping it would not Slumdog Millionaire me.

And sure, the fantasy sequences bordered on over-the-top, and the shaky camera angles bordered on overkill. 

But overall . . . I learned with Precious.  And so will you.

Plot: overweight, borderline illiterate teenager Claireece "Precious" Jones (Gabourey Sidibe) is pregnant with her second child and living with her monstrous mother (Mo'Nique) in Harlem.  When Precious is thrown out of school for her pregnancy, her principal, noticing Precious' aptitude for math, suggests an alternative school.  Encouraged by her even-keeled instructor (Paula Patton) and a concerned welfare officer (a stripped-down Mariah Carey), Precious begins to come to terms with her damaged upbringing and the possibilities that lie beyond it.  But for every step forward, there are two steps back.

Sounds like a Lifetime Original Movie, no?  Here's what sets Precious apart from those crappy Sunday afternoon B-dramas:

1.  The acting.  Stellar on all fronts.  What each performer does right in Precious is keep it simple.  Base.  Raw.  From Sidibe's blank yet haunted protagonist to Lenny Kravitz's no-nonsense nurse, every movement, facial expression and line delivery is straight from the gut, deeply felt, and real.  Yes, I'm including Mariah Carey in this praise.  Props to Mo'Nique for applying a deft touch to an utterly irredeemable character, without being cartoonish.  Not an easy feat by any means, and she pulled it off with the utmost skill.

2.  The brutality.  Precious has a terrible, terrible life, much of which the viewer is privy to.  She may go to a dream world as a survival mechanism, but not before we see the graphic abuse that necessitates such a world.  Beware: several scenes in Precious had me gasping and sobbing, and I didn't cover my eyes during Inglourious Basterds.  I have to give the filmmakers credit, however, for putting out there what most of us like to pretend isn't happening in our own backyard.

3.  The reality.  Without giving anything away, I will say that Precious doesn't tie up all its ends in an empowered, you-go-girl bow.  Precious' existence will continue to be difficult, and complications will increase.  As she is a mother, she has to consider the fate of her children as well.  Even the best support system can't completely eradicate her struggles, or the temptation to avoid them as her mother has, by living off welfare and eating in front of the television in an apartment building frequented by crackheads.  Long after the end credits roll, you will worry for Precious, and hope that she has the strength to move forward on her own.  You will pray that she remembers the advice of her teacher (and one of my favorite quotes): the longest journey begins with a single step.

Throw your support behind this flick, y'all.  It doesn't have the feel-good fantastical elements of Slumdog, but it's a story that needs to be told.  It's flawed, but honest: one of the best examples I've ever witnessed of art imitating life.

The Most Human Color: Blue Car

As we all know, real life ain't always fun to watch.

Humans are a messy bunch: we let each other down, scream, yell, bite our fingernails and don't comb our hair.  We let ourselves believe what isn't true so we can survive day to day.  When betrayed, we bite our lips and soldier on--until we hit a breaking point. 

None of this is smooth or easy.  All of this and more is portrayed in the 2002 indie Blue Car, a movie that had me cringing and chewing my knuckle.  Not because it was bad, but because it was achingly real.

One of the small details Blue Car does so very well is the main character Meg's fingernails.  Bitten to the quick and partially covered with nail polish so chipped it's hard to determine the color, they serve as a window into Meg's understandably damaged psyche.  Sure, she's beautiful and artistically gifted, but she also has a whole lot of baggage that will manifest over and over throughout the film, threatening to thwart the simple goals in her already scattershot life.

In a nutshell: Meg's (Agnes Bruckner) dad left several years ago (in the blue car of the title), and rarely sees his two daughters.  Meg's mom struggles through night school and a factory job to make ends meet, while Meg's younger sister Lily has issues with self-injury, anorexia and delusion.  Meg has exactly two things going for her: her talent for poetry, and her borderline inappropriate relationship with her AP English teacher (David Strathairn) who encourages her to submit her writing to a contest.  And it's (mostly) all downhill from there.

When I think about Blue Car, the word that comes to mind is painful.  Also, uncomfortable.  Bleak, even. Unlike An Education, Blue Car doesn't have the benefit of funny parent characters or mod pastel colors. Everything and everyone is washed-out and desperate.  I will give the filmmaker props for keeping the film at a short 88 minutes, because at times I wasn't sure how much more I could take of watching everyone's life get worse and worse.  A simple act of no-strings-attached kindness toward Meg late in the film was enough to move me to tears.

Yet I had to appreciate how Blue Car did not fall into the easy trap of Lifetime Original Movie territory.  First, Meg wasn't a straight-up victim.  Even in the mindset of her sad existence, she made decisions that

were impetuous at best and dangerous at worst.

Second, I didn't hate her teacher, and I'd like to think it's not just because I adore David Strathairn.  (A League of Their Own.  A Midsummer Night's Dream.  Good Night and Good Luck.  I could go on and on--the man is a character actor GOD.)  Does he misuse and abuse his authority and power?  Absomalutely. Still, he has his own demons to deal with.  It doesn't make his actions right or even understandable, but I didn't want to murder him when the movie was done.  Truth be told, if there was any authority figure I really disliked, it was Meg's mother, who may have been struggling, but showed no real compassion for either of her daughters until it was too late.  At least Meg's teacher genuinely believed in her writing talent.

Third, the ending was not clear-cut.  The audience is left to draw their own conclusions about Meg's future. In some films that can be frustrating, but here I appreciated the filmmaker's respect for the audience's intelligence.  I didn't feel manipulated, as I do increasingly these days, even in indie movies.  (Three words: Little Miss Sunshine.  You can argue with me in the comments.)

I Wikipedia'd Agnes Bruckner: since Blue Car, the actress hasn't done much of note.  A few years ago, I did attempt her werewolf movie (based on a YA novel) Blood and Chocolate and found it unwatchable. Not sure if she just hasn't gotten another break a la Erika Christensen, or if this was a very well-directed performance. Either way, I liked her here.

While Google imaging this film, I found the DVD cover.  I hadn't seen it previously, as the place I rent from looks up the titles for you, then gives you the disc.  I must say, it bugs the crap out of me.

Really, DVD marketing powers-that-be?  REALLY?  It might as well be called Blue Boobs.

First, Meg never dresses this provocatively in the film.  With the exception of her bathing suit in later scenes, her clothes are baggy, reflecting her uncertainty and self-consciousness.  She's also never seen holding a flower near her crotch in the world's most obvious metaphor for virginity.  Gah.

Second, I HATE photos where the chick has no head.  You don't see many headless dudes, but headless girls and women are everywhere in advertising.  We're more than just bodies, people!

Is Blue Car a perfect movie?  Hell no.  It is at times heavy-handed and melodramatic, and I still can't tell whether or not Agnes Bruckner can really act.  However, this tacky, exploitative DVD cover insults the film's thoughtful, emotional portrayal of the ultimate little girl lost.  Meg is solemn, troubled, most of all complicated.  Sure, I got exasperated with her many times, but most of all I wanted her to be okay, to do something with her writing, to find real, pure love.  I didn't always agree with her actions, but I valued her as a multifaceted, interesting young woman.  This DVD cover does not.

Let's look at the original movie poster, shall we?

Wow!  Meg's FACE!  How 'bout that?

Much better.

(Thanks to my reader Heather Taylor for recommending this film!)

Make Me Your Matey, and I'll Give You My Independence: An Education

Blogger's note: Since the Teen Girl Trifecta feature (where I reviewed Whip It!, Ginger Snaps, and Now and Then in the span of three weeks) was so well-received by all y'all, I'm going to resurrect it with three new reviews.  See, I DO listen!  We begin with the new Brit film An Education, so throw your mittens around your kittens and awaaaaay we go!

For a while, I wasn't sure what to think about An Education.  I mean, the shallow part of me was all, "Oooh!  1960's!  England!  Fashion!  Peter Sarsgaard with an accent!  Dreamy Dominic Cooper!"  In other words, the squealy sixteen-year-old that never quite found her way out of my subconscious was jumping up and down in her belly shirt and hip hugger jeans.  Then the almost-thirty, educated feminist in a skirt and tights took over with a wallop of guilt: by viewing a film about a teenage schoolgirl seduced by a much older and wealthier man, am I condoning pedophilia?  Am I saying it's okay because it's only a movie and both actors are really attractive?  For the love of God, what would the commenters on Jezebel say?

Then I got over myself and went to the movie theatre.

In a nutshell: Jenny (Carey Mulligan) is preparing to apply for Oxford, with the help of her loving but overbearing mum and dad (Cara Seymour and the forever brilliant Alfred Molina).  She's obsessed with Paris, loves to read, and is so bad at Latin that she requires a private tutor her parents really can't afford.  One rainy day after orchestra rehearsal, Jenny is soaking wet and lugging her cello--when a handsome stranger offers her a lift, expressing concern for her instrument.  And Jenny's life is never the same.

Let's get this out of the way right now: the premise is inherently creepy.  I mean, a middle-aged (albeit very good-looking) guy with shady career pursuits seduces an underage girl whose eyes are as big and uninformed as her future plans...and her parents are okay with it?  Today, Chris Hansen would no doubt be inviting Peter Sarsgaard's character, David, to take a seat.  Right over there.

Except An Education doesn't take place today.  It takes place in 1961.  Granted, I wasn't alive during that era, but I watch Mad Men, which my mom assures me is terrifyingly accurate.  Women were earning more life options, sure, but not without fighting every step of the way--and this progress didn't always immediately reach the lower middle class that Jenny's family belongs to.  Even further back than the 1960's, an old dude and an underage chick were not only socially acceptable, but encouraged, particularly if the girl came from less than affluent means.  David snows them without much difficulty: all he has to do is name-drop C.S. Lewis and open a bottle of wine, and suddenly he's squiring Jenny to Oxford and Paris with their blessing. 

No matter that Jenny's English teacher (Olivia Williams) and headmistress (Emma Thompson, how I love thee) are vehemently against the relationship.  Jenny sees them as dull and lifeless, no comparison to the flashy lifestyle of David and his Ken-and-Barbie cohorts (Dominic Cooper and Rosamund Pike).  Because Jenny is young, she only sees the efforts of her teacher and headmistress to gain and keep their careers--not the less-tangible rewards.  So what if her new friends can barely recognize a book?  They're pretty and fancy and far more exciting than Latin homework.

Where I think An Education succeeds the most is really showing us the world through Jenny's eyes.  This is largely in part due to the screenwriting prowess of one of my favorite authors, Nick Hornby.  Years ago, I hated Hornby's How to Be Good because I didn't think he accurately captured the voice of a woman.  If An Education and his new novel Juliet, Naked are to be believed, ol' Nicky has really stepped up to the plate.

I was really with Jenny throughout the film, and not because I'm a YA junkie.  She's so articulate and sweet that I would have loved to be her pal, and quite frankly, who wouldn't be dazzled by a dashing older man who promises you the world and for a while at least, delivers on his promises?  Because homework is boring and parents are lame, but jewelry sparkles! 

Because I'm no longer a sixteen-year-old girl, I knew where the plot was going.  It wouldn't be called An Education if the youthful protagonist didn't learn.  That said, the point of view was so heartbreakingly accurate that I forgot about Jenny's inevitable shattered illusions.  I was sad with her.  I hoped that she would be able to pull herself up and move on.  Thanks to the skillful writing, direction and acting, I was able to put my cynicism aside and really immerse myself in the story.

Speaking of acting, the principal cast is strong.  Both Molina and Thompson could act out out the alphabet and I'd be in the front row.  Sarsgaard once again showcases his versatility by tossing out charm like Halloween candy, in a very believable dialect.  Cooper is dashing with a glimmer of conscience, and Pike is wonderfully comic as a contentedly shallow trophy.  But the real star here is Carey Mulligan: her Jenny is equal parts silly and serious, frothy and fraught.  She was so convincing that even though I know about labor laws, age of consent, etc etc, I was blown away to learn that she's not actually sixteen.

In the spirit of the early '60's, I'll channel Don Draper here and say that An Education is the equivalent of a perfect cocktail.  Deliciously sweet, with a definite bite, and stays with you the next day.  You won't get a hangover, though.  Promise.

Remember the Time: Now and Then

This week, I conclude my Teen Girl Trifecta with a coming of age story rooted in nostalgia but quietly resonant nonetheless.

I can remember seeing Now and Then in the theatres with so much clarity it's a little scary.  I was probably wearing my favorite plaid shirt, to camouflage the boobs that I despised (like Christina Ricci's Roberta).  My mom drove us because we were a year away from our own licenses.  It was a Friday night and we had to wait in line, because our town was tiny and what else was there to do?  And most of all, I remember who I was with: my best friend Addie.  We were so excited for a girl-centric friendship movie, because we considered ourselves the only feminists in our Catholic high school.  And naturally, we adored Now and Then: for the rest of the year when things got rough, we'd remind each other, "It's normal for things to be shitty."

For a film that, as I recall, received very little marketing, there were a lot of interesting women involved.  Real '90's power players, young and old.  Not only does the pre-fembot Demi Moore show up onscreen as adult Samantha (her sultry voice carrying a lovely weight in the film's narration), she also executive produced the film with her oft-partner Suzanne Todd.  The director, Leslie Linka Glatter, has helmed several episodes of excellent television series such as Six Feet Under and most recently Mad Men.  And the 99% female cast is fantastic: Moore, Melanie Griffith (before she got all pufferfish scary), Rosie O'Donnell (before she got all militant), and Rita Wilson as the adult versions of their equally strong younger counterparts: Gaby Hoffmann, Thora Birch (recovered from the Macaulay Culkin mushmouth she had as a tot in All I Want for Christmas), Christina Ricci, and an unknown Canadian named Ashleigh Aston Moore (who died of respiratory failure in late 2007).  Plus, Janeane Garofalo, Bonnie Hunt and Cloris Leachman pop up in fun cameo roles (not to mention Demi Moore's own daughter, Rumer Willis).

Like I said, the film wasn't marketed much.  I remember previews and ads MAYBE a week before the release date.  It was one of those movies which the studio clearly had no idea what to do with.  (This is starting to become true for Whip It as well.)  Probably all the estrogen.  Scaaaaaaaary!  A film with that many cool girls and women couldn't POSSIBLY have anything to say to the public.  Right?

Wrong.

Among the many inequities in pop culture is this glaring annoyance: a film such as Stand By Me is lauded and praised for its sepia-toned illusion-shattering but lesson-learning portrayal of the child-teen brink.  Now and Then, on the other hand, while plenty loved by many women I know, gets written off as a "chick flick."  Don't get me wrong, I love Stand By Me.  However, Now and Then not only has many similar elements--sexual confusion, broken families, and a supernatural element, related largely in flashback form--but is just as well-acted and affecting without being manipulative.  Only it's about chicks, so it's not seen as universal.  Bull. Shit.

The plot is simple and straightforward: four far-flung childhood pals reunite in their old Indiana suburb and recall an eventful summer of their youth.  Samantha (Moore/Hoffmann), now a hardboiled sci-fi writer, remembers her parents' divorce, a neighborhood first.  Roberta (O'Donnell/Ricci), a sardonic doctor, was then a tough tomboy who taped down her tits while secretly mourning her mother's death.  Teeny (Griffith/Birch), now a sexpot actress, stuffed her chest with pudding-filled balloons and watched drive-in movies from her rooftop.  And Chrissy (Wilson/Aston Moore), an expectant mom, was intolerant of naughty words and obsessed with gardening, thanks to a metaphor-heavy sex talk from her well-meaning but misguided mother.  In the summer of 1970, they are twelve years old and have two goals: raise money for a fantastic treehouse (essentially a room of their own), and solve the mystery of a long-ago local death involving a boy their age known only as Dear Johnny.  All set to a background of pastels and love beads, and a groovy 70's soundtrack featuring not one but two Jackson 5 songs (yay!).

Most people use the term "tearjerker" to describe an emotional film.  I prefer "noseprickler."  As in, my nose gets all prickly the way it does before I get all choked up.  Now and Then has plenty of noseprickling moments.  After all, Roberta and Samantha are dealing with absent parents, carefully choosing what they do and don't reveal to their friends.  All four girls encounter lost souls such as a Purple Heart winner-turned-drifter (Brendan Fraser) and a lonely old man who's not as creepy as he seems, both of which alter their worldviews in ways that aren't always welcome.  Samantha in particular learns that "things happen beyond our control, but that's no reason to shut out the world"--revealing as an adult that it's taken her decades to fully process that advice.  And at the conclusion of the summer, the girls have met both their summer goals, but with very different results than they planned: mainly, the inevitability of their growing apart.

Don't get me wrong, there is as much hilarity.  Not only do the four younger actresses present believable relationship dynamics, but they really bring the funny.  The girls may squabble, tease and form alliances within their quartet, but they band together with a vengeance against the common enemy: boys, especially the Wormer brothers (adult Samantha dryly notes, "everyone in the neighborhood felt sorry for their mother").  Also, a sexist softball-game spectator who orders Roberta to "go home and play with your dolls" earns a well-deserved physical and verbal beatdown.

Less than a year after we watched Now and Then, like the girls in the film, Addie and I gained independence from each other.  We definitely stayed close and had more sleepovers.  However, we started seriously pursuing our passions: music for her and theatre for me.  She started dating the next semester; that summer, I fell in love.  Thanks to Facebook, we've very recently reconnected.  She's moved back to our old stomping grounds and has a husband and child, I'm a single gal in the city.  But like lovers always have Paris, Addie and I always have Now and Then.

Sadly, I have to wonder if a film like Now and Then could even be made today.  The story, while important and universal, isn't the sort of box-office and/or Oscar bait that studios crave these days.  On the other side of the coin, it's not quirky enough to be an indie.  Plus, the fact that there are boys' naked butts automatically disqualifies it from Disney.  However, I'm really not sure that today's young actresses could carry almost an entire film as subtly and skillfully as Ricci, Hoffmann, Birch and Aston Moore.  So maybe, even though it never got the mainstream attention it deserved, Now and Then was in fact, in the right place at the right time.

Maybe I'm Ready to Kick a Little Ass: Whip It

Everybody has a split second.

It's almost imperceptible, and often doesn't come to light until many years and life experiences later.  But if you look back really, really hard, you can find the split second where you experienced a clear, perfect vision of the person you wanted to become.

When I was a sophomore acting enthusiast at a teeny-tiny sports-crazy Catholic high school, I road-tripped with some friends to the small city near us (which seemed plenty big compared to our farm town) to see a play.  And not just any play, but a theatrical version of S.E. Hinton's The Outsiders, the first show in the area whose cast and crew was comprised entirely of teenagers.  That night I was feeling brave with my fashion choices and opted to go a little more funky, wearing a headscarf that my mom thought was weird and consequently I adored.  Before the show started, I headed up the aisle so I could go to the bathroom. 

That was my split second.

Because while headed up the aisle, I faced a crowded theatre full of people my age in weird clothes and rainbow-colored hair, all of us in the same place because we loved theatre and loved it even more when it was produced and performed by our peers. 

And from then on, my life cracked open.

That summer, I did my very first outdoor theatre production in that very same small city--with some of the very same people involved in The Outsiders. I discovered bands like They Might Be Giants, indulged my loud mouth, and realized that I wanted more than anything to study theatre.  In a weird twist of fate, I ended up dating The Outsiders' director's brother--who had seen me and my headscarf en route to the bathroom from his vantage point in the lighting booth.  Without even knowing it, he was part of my split second.

Which brings me to Whip It, Drew Barrymore's empowering and incredibly gratifying directorial debut, adapted from Shauna Cross' YA novel.  Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the opening shenanigans, where small-town Texas teen Bliss Cavendar (the glowing Ellen Page) reluctantly participates in a beauty pageant while sporting the "temporary" blue hair color applied by her BFF Pash (Arrested Development's Alia Shawkat, in a long-overdue return to my life).  But the real beauty of the film, for me at least, began when 17-year-old Bliss experienced her split second.  On a trip to Austin with her pageant-princess-turned-postal-worker mom (a pitch-perfect Marcia Gay Harden), Bliss spots three tough, tattooed broads on skates cockily distributing flyers for a roller-derby exhibition.  Bliss' eyes widen, her breath catches, and her face longs for something that until that moment she didn't realize she wanted.  And in the audience, tears of recognition ran down my face because I'd never seen the split second captured that beautifully and accurately.

I'm ecstatic to report that the film just got better from there.

The story's both heartwrenchingly relatable--outcast teen discovers a whole new world outside her sheltered, suffocating environment and learns a lot about herself along the way--and gloriously groundbreaking--said outcast teen learns that in the right situation, it's downright awesome to throw down.  When Bliss declares to her parents that she's in love, she's not referring to her shaggy-haired paramour (real-life musician Landon Pigg), but to her place on the ragtag Hurl Scouts team.  Yes, there are mean girls in every incarnation of Bliss' life--from pageant-queen beeyotches to cheerleader antagonists to a derby rival (Juliette Lewis) who is threatened by her talent--but for every nasty chick, there's a cool single mom (Kristen Wiig, seamlessly blending dry wit and earthy empathy), a fearless female who willingly takes 'em for the team (Drew Barrymore), and a down and dirty New Zealander who's always up for a fist bump or a rough hug (my new girl-crush Zoe Bell--seriously, I want to go drinking with her and stir up some bar brawls).  When Bliss is reluctant to engage in the "contact" of the ultimate contact sport, her teammate encourages her to get angry--because when anger has an appropriate channel, it can lead to glory.  I've been going to movies since I was two, and NEVER have I seen a film where a teenage girl is told that anger is not only normal and acceptable, but a worthwhile emotion.

What's more, holding together the film's many sweeping victories, are lovely, precise little details.  How astoundingly beautiful all the women are, not because of flawless spray tans or perfect hair, but because of skin art (I normally don't agree with neck tattooes, but they really work here), hard-earned muscles, and pride in their scrapes and bruises.  (Even a bloody nose is almost poetic.)  How Bliss and Pash's sweet physicality was a spot-on portrayal of teen girl bestfriendhood.  How a post-derby party finds two members of opposing teams flirting, not to titillate a horny dude (when Jimmy Fallon's crass announcer comes sniffing around, he is promptly sneered at and dismissed by both ladies) but because they genuinely seem into one another.  How it's just accepted that fans stampede the roller derby in eager droves, and paraphernalia sold at games features women's names, team numbers and pictures.

Still not sold?  Alia Shawkat utters the word "shemale."  If you were a fan of Arrested Development, you should be peeing your pants right. about. now.

Finally, I know it's in all the previews and on the poster, but Whip It's message bears not only repeating but adopting as your personal, universal life motto: Be Your Own Hero.  And the way it's presented is fantastic in its simplicity.  There's no obvious Oscar clip, no paint-by-numbers inspiraspeech.  It's uttered almost offhandedly by Kristen Wiig's character, after Bliss professes her admiration for the derby girls.  "Be your own hero."  She's not flippant, but casual, presenting the advice as a goal well within reach.  Of course taking that advice isn't easy, but it's entirely within the realm of possibility.  There's a scary amount of wisdom in those four words, and in the film itself. 

I'm recommending you see Whip It harder than I've ever recommended anything on this blog.  You won't regret it, I promise.  On that note, why are you still sitting here?  Relive your split second, lace up your Barbie skates and GO.

Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon (Sorry): Ginger Snaps

So I haven't seen Jennifer's Body yet.  Most likely I will--if you've ever read this blog, you know that I like Diablo Cody, haters be damned.  (And yes, I'm super excited about her involvement in the Sweet Valley High movie.  Far better it's helmed by someone who actually read the books when they were popular--and has a healthy sense of irony--than a clueless male Hollywood suit.)  Don't get me wrong: I've heard enough conflicting reviews of the film to want to form my own opinion.  I'm just waiting till it's been out for another week and I can use my discount card at a certain theatre chain and see it for $5. 

In the meantime, however, I thought I'd dedicate this week's post to another teen-girl horror comedy, a cult Canadian piece that's been recommended to me for years and whose title has resurfaced in the blogosphere amid the Jennifer's Body hype.  I'm talking of course about Ginger Snaps.

Sophomore year of college, I developed a weird fascination with Canadian accents.  Because I was an annoying theatre major, I'd even speak in one from time to time.  Probably had something to do with the Kids in the Hall reruns that aired on Comedy Central every afternoon.  That same year, I developed insomnia and discovered IMDb, leading to my bizarre talent for identifying obscure character actors.  So when I popped in Ginger Snaps, imagine my double dose of ecstasy: not only did the film contain "aboot"'s and "soh-ry"'s galore, BUT one of the two female leads is portrayed by Emily Perkins, best known to me as the surly women's clinic receptionist in Juno, who dryly informs Ellen Page of her affinity for boysenberry prophylactics.  Win-WIN!

The basic plot rundown: Brigitte (Perkins) and her sister Ginger (Katharine Isabelle) are intelligent and imaginative teenage girls with a long-running suicide pact and a fascination with acting out gory death scenarios in elaborate photo shoots.  Needless to say, their baggy clothes and goth sensibilities don't do them any favors when facing their classmates or their well-meaning but clueless mom (Mimi Rogers).  Meanwhile, a growling, toothy presence has made itself known in their small town by ravaging neighborhood dogs.  While sneaking out to play a prank, Ginger gets her period for the first time and seconds later has an unfortunate run-in with the creature whom Brigitte suspects is a lycanthrope.  And from then on, all hell breaks loose.

First impression?  I haven't seen a film this unapologetically bloody since The Descent (which I adored not only for its kickass freakiness but its 99% female cast).  If you don't even like to look at your own paper cuts, I'd suggest you avoid Ginger Snaps and its buckets of very realistic goo.  In fact, blood is almost its own character: it splatters, splashes, undulates and perhaps most terrifyingly, begins with an innocent trickle down Ginger's leg that starts the whole deliciously creepy ordeal.

My very favorite aspect of the film, though, is its unapologetic feminist intelligence.  Not only are two teenage girls front and center in the narrative, but they're far from passive and one-dimensional.  Brigitte grows gradually more horrified at the changes in her sister and former best friend, but for the majority of the film, Ginger is scared too: a burst of self-awareness that's not only rare in the horror genre but with adolescent female characters.  (Interesting, because one could argue that teenage girls have the most self-awareness of anyone.)  Also, Brigitte largely takes it upon herself to "cure" Ginger of her affliction--yes, she seeks assistance from cute drug dealer Sam, but when it comes to the final showdown, Brigitte is left on her own to make the ultimate decision of Ginger's fate.  And though Ginger commits a lot of bad, bad deeds as her transformation becomes complete, anyone who was tormented by mean girls in the past will heartily applaud when she kicks the queen bee's ass on the hockey field.

You don't have to be a bastion of literary criticism to know that Ginger's post-menstrual animorph from sullen teen to deadly werewolf is an allegory for puberty.  All it takes is a rush of blood and a doggie attack and Ginger becomes unrecognizable to Brigitte: mysterious pains, unwanted hair in unmentionable places, and scariest of all, a sexual magnetism and intense aggression.  Ginger alternately relishes and loathes these changes, but is increasingly powerless to stop them.  And the cliffhanger ending ultimately leaves Brigitte with a complex choice--to eviscerate her destructive sister but ultimately face life alone, or to join Ginger's uncontrollable, hirsute ranks and forever be regarded as a freak by society.  Not only do the cons outweigh the pros in either scenario, but viewers--particularly those with ovaries--know the truth: once your body bleeds for five days and doesn't die, there really is no going back.

Ginger Snaps is unique.  Girls who want more than boys and take care of each other, symbolism as pervasive as the gobs o' goo, and plenty of dark laughs along the way.  (And Canadians!)

Definitely not your mama's horror movie.